Letters to Italia
by RavenWriter8
Summary: Italy once shared his thoughts with Germany through his letter. Now, Germany has finally decided to share his own thoughts with Italy, in the same fashion. Or, not share. But rather, write. *A one-shot, letter-style, from Germany's POV; does contain one-sided GermanyxItaly, for certain. Once again, though, with dignity.*


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**This was definitely one of my more pairing-based works. Basically, for a while I have been denying the truth behind GerIta, until I finally gave in and joined the bandwagon. And Germany apparently had some hidden feelings to share. Or not to share. So, what could I do but write them down? It is pretty much his own, much more long-winded version of a reply in kind to Italy's letter to him, before Russia's visit (before World War II, I believe? Was it?). So, like always, enjoy! :3 Obviously contains GermanyxItaly, and is told from Germany's POV.

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Dear Germany,

It's your friend, Italy! I had a really scary dream last night and I don't want it to come true. I dreamt you stopped being my BFF because Russia was cooler and less like…well…me.

Your Friend Forever,

Italy Veneziano

PS: Those sausages you left outside taste really bad.

-

Dear Italy,

It's your friend, Germany. Something has come up, and I…I don't know. I figured…perhaps if anything, I could write this out. Make it clear in my own head. If nothing else. I just don't know what to do anymore. Can you forgive me?

I suppose this has been on my mind for far too long. I have kept this to myself for years and years on end…probably as long as I've known you, really. There had been so much going on, I barely had the time to think, then…but the feeling has always been there, I believe. I know. I know it has. I just…I was _scared_, Italy…I admit it…I would never admit this if I knew you would read this letter. I will not give it to you. This, I also know. These are things I could never admit to anyone. I can barely even write these words…for some reason…but…

Ever since I've known you, I've had this _feeling_…I received it the very moment I first saw your face, popping out of that box of tomatoes in the woods. Maybe even the moment I heard your voice. But…there was something familiar about you. For certain. I had no idea…I still don't…but there's _something_ there, deep in my mind, something even I'm barely aware of, like a distant memory I don't have access to. It scares me…because every time I look at you, I feel, I see something in you that strikes something very deep inside me, and I just, can't, remember…it scares me, because I wonder what else I don't know, what…what…

I don't know…

I'm sorry, it's just…I should stop worrying, shouldn't I? I'm not writing to you, technically…no one but me will ever, ever read this…but I'm still apprehensive, for some reason. I guess it's just that…well, writing it down feels like it's making it more real. Trying to ignore this feeling I've had for so long has been taxing on my spirit. I'm so tired of keeping this to myself. I know I should be used to it. I keep everything to myself, except a few things, which I share with mein bruder…but he's different. There's something about him that just makes me know I can tell him anything, and he would understand. I even get the feeling he seems to know more about me than even I do. I can't explain that feeling any more than I can explain what I feel with you…for you…

I'm growing weary of writing, now, my dear Italy. I have written plenty of letters in my day, mostly to foreign leaders, other nations, dealing with business matters…but I have yet to write a personal letter, really. Well…until now. Maybe this doesn't count, if it isn't sent. But I am unused to it, nonetheless. I just…

I'm tired of it, I miss you, Italy. I have mein bruder, oh yes, but it's not the same. I take care of him, but I owe it to him, for everything he's done and does and will do for me. I love him, my brother. But he isn't you, Italy. You may be useless, as far as warfare is concerned, and you may be weak, a crybaby, even, high maintenance…but you're special. I…I don't know how to say these things, Italy, forgive me, please forgive me.

I'm sorry, I had to take a break…I haven't wri I just don't know what to say, even to myself. Writing to you is even different than writing to myself. Even just the thought of speaking to you creates this feeling of nervousness…I can't take it, it's so unusual. But I'm not a coward, Italy. I haven't allowed myself to be a coward. Ever.

Do you know why that is, Italy?

It's because I've had to.

I do it for my country. I do it for those I'm loyal to. I do it for those I'm bound to. And it has gotten me into more trouble than I care to mention. I think you know very well. I don't like to think of those days any longer. They scare me too, my dearest Italy. You may think I am the man who is made of stone, the man who can't be moved. But the thing is, I am still a man, Italy. And men get scared. Men have feelings that sometimes even they can't control, no matter how disciplined they are. No matter how militarized I have been, I cannot keep them inside me any longer. If I do not write them on this slip of paper, I will go insane.

I am not unmovable, dear Italy. For a very long time now, I have forced myself to remain the way others see me, the way I must be for everyone I am loyal to and everyone I am bound to, for my country. Perhaps I am less of a man than other nations, in reality, just because of how much I have suppressed my own wishes and my own emotions. Even now, I feel how nervo much I am unused to this. But in reality, Italy…

But in reality, Italy…Feliciano…the closest I have ever been to being a man is when I'm with you. Especially lately, with so much less going on in my mind and my life…business is as usual, and everything is stable, and I don't have to think about all the things I've done in my lifetime because of the one I've been loyal to, bound to, for my country. And it means I can feel again. Yes, I can _feel_ again…It is so strange to me, so alien…but _breathtaking_…I can go out in the morning, and look over the rooftops of Berlin, when the sky is glowing light gray and the crows are settling on the tiling, only silhouettes in the mist, and my city is unmoving below me, everyone I've worked to protect only just stirring in their homes…and I can just _look_, and think of how long I have left to just look…how many years that will pass before…I have lived through times so dark that I believed I would die the next morning, that I would never see that sky so light again, would never see my city in the light of dawn, the sky unblocked by the smoke…

…I…like I was saying…you…during that terrible time, you were the only one there to break me out of my duties, everything my duties enlisted me to do…even mein bruder had disappeared…but I'd rather not speak about it…the important thing is, Feliciano, when I had you living in my house, just being there and sticking by my side even in the darkest of times…it…yes, it made me _happy_…the only thing that could make me happy…because, for once, I had something cheerful in my life, when I so desperately needed it, something to keep me busy, and even though you got me into more trouble than I could handle at the time (do you remember the African warfront? Danke, you Dummkopf). Even with those things…you were there, and you were happy. You were the happy I didn't have at the time. In fact, you are probably the happy I have never had.

As far back as I can remember, there have only been two times when I've been truly happy. The first is when I was young, and it was just Prussia and me, at a time when I did not even have to fight for anything I owned. Now I know that he was fighting at that time…but back then, I was happy, because all I knew was that I had a home, and he was there, and when he was there, he was happy, too. We had each other…there was something deep inside me, something that has stuck with me throughout my entire life, that I have never been able to get rid of, no matter what I do. And that is loneliness. I have always felt that, somehow, I have been and always will be alone, no matter how many people I have around me. It goes back farther than I can even remember…back to the origin of those _feelings_, those feelings I get when I look at you, when I first looked at you…

I am sorry. I am sorry I never told you, Feliciano. I never treated you like the person you are. From the moment I was recruited to be what I had to be, back then, as a country, by that wretched man, from those regimes…I have had to pretend that I am not a person myself. If I didn't, the things I had to do, the things I did, would be unbearable to my mind. I have never recovered, not fully, and I never will. Perhaps it was best, however, for I do not think I am the best for you. And I never will be. I am simply intolerable. And I don't deserve your friendship, your companionship, even your company, or…or _anything_, anything you could give me, my dear Feliciano. You deserve so much more than I can offer, so much more than I am. And it tears me apart sometimes, almost more than anything else. Thinking of the things I've done, and the things I am because of it…it kills me inside. Even now, I need to stop…I need to stop thinking about it, or else I will not be able to finish. But…but, Feliciano…there has always been something in my heart, something warm, something alive…something that, I get the feeling, has been there far longer than I can remember, somehow…I don't know how…something ancient…

Something in my heart…it kept me warm on the coldest of nights, and days, those days when I had to do the worst of deeds…every time I came home and you were there, every time I woke up in the middle of the night to feel you warm against my side…oh, you don't know how I had to stop myself, I wanted to do, to say so many things…but I knew I couldn't, I could never bring myself to…like I said, my dear Feliciano…I was scared…what exactly of, I don't know, and maybe I never will. But I was…I am, still…however much I wanted to feel more of that warmth…I knew I coul

…I'm sorry. Truly. I don't know what else to say, Feliciano. You were the most important thing in my life, in my time of greatest need. And every time I look at you, my spirits are lifted from that place of being merely a country, simply a military man of no use than to serve his nation. I am not the man who can't be moved. I am not made of stone. As far back as I can remember, and beyond, in that ancient place I will never be able to recall, I have loved you as dearly as I can ever love anyone with what I am.

No matter what happens, my dear Feliciano…I will always protect you. And no matter how many holes appear in my memories, deliberate or not…I have always loved you. I always will.

I am not a man of stone.

However hard I try.

Your Friend Forever,

West Germany

PS: Those sausages were for the dogs, Dummkopf.


End file.
